HOW THE GAME WAS PLAYED.
Rosamond’s life as a governess had been a very happy one, but still
there was always present with her a consciousness of pain and loss,—a
keen regret and intense longing for the “might have been,” and a great
pity for Everard, whose lot she knew was so much harder to bear than her
own; for with him the burden was growing heavier, and the chain ever
lengthening, which bound him to his fate. He had written to her
frequently during the past year, friendly, brotherly letters, such as
Josephine might have read without just cause of complaint. But he had
given way once, and in a moment when his sky was very dark, had poured
out his soul in passionate, burning words, telling how dreary life was
to him without her, and asking if she could not bring herself to think
that the divorce he could so easily get was valid, and would free him
from the hateful tie which bound him?
And Rosamond had answered him, “Only God can free you from the bond,”
and had said he must never write like that to her again if he wished her
to answer him; and so the last hope was crushed, and Everard took up his
load once more and tried to bear it more manfully, and by a closer
attention to his practice to forget the bliss which might have been his
had he not rashly thrown the chance away. Rossie had said to him in her
letter, “Pray, Everard, as I do; pray often, that you may learn to think
of me as only your sister, the little Rossie who amused you and whom you
liked to tease.”
But Everard did not pray. On the contrary, he was in a most resentful
and rebellious frame of mind, and blamed the Providence which had
permitted him to go so far astray. It was well enough for women to pray,
and those who had never been tried and tempted as he had been, but for
himself, he saw no justice in God’s dealings with him, and he could not
ask to be content with what he loathed from his very soul, he wrote in
reply to Rossie, who, while he grew harder and more reckless, was
rapidly developing into a character sweeter and lovelier than anything
Everard had known. And the new life and principle within her showed
itself upon her face, which was like the face of Murillo’s sweetest
Madonna, where the earthly love blends so harmoniously with the divine,
and gives a glorious and saintly expression to the lovely countenance.
But Rossie’s health had suffered from this constant sense of pain and
loss. The bright color was gone from her cheeks save as it came and went
with fatigue or excitement, and there was about her a frail, delicate
look, wholly unlike the child Rossie, who used to be so full of life and
vigor in the old happy days at the Forrest House. Still, she complained
of nothing except that she was always tired, but this was, in Mrs.
Andrews’ mind, a sufficiently alarming symptom, and it was as much on
Rossie’s account as on her own that she planned the trip to Florida,
where she hoped the warm sunlight would bring strength again to the girl
whom she loved almost as a daughter.
And so they were at the St. James, where Mrs. Andrews found several
acquaintances, but Rossie saw no one whom she knew, and as she had a
severe headache she kept her room, and did not appear until the second
day, when she dressed herself and went down to join Mrs. Andrews on the
piazza, where the guests usually congregated in the morning. There was a
crowd of them there now, and Mrs. Andrews, who was very popular and
entertaining, was already the center of a group of friends, with whom
she was talking, when Rosamond appeared, and made her way towards her.
Everybody turned to look after her, and none more eagerly than Dr.
Matthewson, who stood leaning against the railing, and waiting for
Josephine to join him. He had watched for Rossie all the preceding day,
after her arrival, and felt greatly disappointed at her non-appearance,
but he knew she was there, his half-sister, and the heiress to hundreds
of thousands, and, as he believed, of a nature which he could mold as he
would clay, if he could only know just what her tastes were, and adapt
himself to them. As yet he had been quite non-committal, only devoting
himself to Josephine, and talking very little with any one, so that he
could, if necessary, become a saint or a sinner, and not seem
inconsistent. Probably he would have to be a saint, he thought; and when
at last Rossie appeared, and passed so near to him that he might have
touched her, he was quite sure of it. Girls with the expression in their
faces which hers wore didn’t believe in slang and profanity, and the
many vices to which he was addicted, and of which Josephine made so
light. Rossie was pure and innocent, and must never suspect the black
catalogue of sins at which he sometimes dared not look. How fair and
lovely she was, with that sweet modesty of demeanor which never could
have been feigned for the occasion; and how eagerly the doctor watched
her as she joined Mrs. Andrews, and was introduced to the ladies around
her.
“Good morning. A penny for your thoughts,” was cooed in his ear, and
turning, he met Josephine’s blue eyes uplifted to him, and Josephine
herself stood there in her very prettiest white wrapper, with an
oleander blossom in her golden hair.
She, too, had watched anxiously for Rosamond, whom she meant to secure
before any mischief could be done, and she saw her now at once in the
distance, and saw the doctor was looking in that direction, too, and
knew, before she asked him, of what he was thinking. But a slight frown
darkened her face at his frank reply:
“I am thinking how very pretty and attractive Miss Hastings is. You must
manage to introduce me as soon as possible, or I shall introduce
myself.”
Just then Rossie turned her face fully toward her, and their eyes met in
recognition. There was a violent start on Rossie’s part, and the blood
flamed into her cheeks for an instant and then left them ashy pale, as
she saw the woman for whom she could not have much respect smiling so
brightly upon her, and advancing to meet her as quickly and gladly as if
they were the greatest friends.
“Oh, Miss Hastings!” she said, in her most flute-like tones, “this is a
surprise. I am so glad to see you. When did you come?”
Rossie explained when she had come and with whom, and after a few brief
remarks on the town and the climate, made as if she would return to Mrs.
Andrews; but now was Josephine’s opportunity or never, and still holding
Rossie’s hand, which she had not relinquished, she said:
“Come with me a moment, please; there are so many things I want to say.
Suppose we take a little turn on the piazza,” and leading Rossie around
the corner of the hotel to a seat where no one was sitting, she plunged
at once into the subject uppermost in her mind.
“Miss Hastings,” she said, “you alone of all the people here know just
how I am living with Everard, or, rather, not living with him. It was
not necessary for me to explain everything, and for aught they know to
the contrary, I have the most devoted of husbands, who may join me any
day. You, of course, can undeceive them if you like, but——”
“Mrs. Forrest,” Rossie exclaimed, “I have no wish to injure you. If I am
asked straightforward questions I must tell the truth; otherwise I have
nothing to say of your life at home, or of anything in the past
pertaining to you and Everard.”
“Thank you so much. I knew I could trust you,” Josephine said, feeling
immensely relieved. “And now come, let me present you to a friend whom I
used to know in Holburton, and met afterward in Dresden. He is here for
his health, and is so kind to Aggie and me. You must come to my room and
see Agnes. She never stops a moment here after she has had her meals.”
She talked rapidly and excitedly, and laid her hand on Rossie’s arm, as
if to lead her to Dr. Matthewson, who forestalled the intention by
suddenly appearing before them. He was more impatient to speak to
Rosamond than Josephine was to have him, and joined them for that very
purpose. Never in his life had he seemed more at his ease or appeared to
better advantage, and there was something very winning and gracious in
his manner as he bowed to Miss Hastings, and hoped she found herself
well in the delicious Florida air.
“You do not look very strong,” he said. “I hope a few days of this
sunshine will do you much good.” He was very kind and considerate, and
bade her be seated again while he talked with her a few moments on
indifferent topics. Then, consulting his watch, he said to Josephine:
“Mrs. Forrest, don’t you think we should have that game of croquet
before the day gets hotter? You see they are beginning to occupy the
grounds already,” and he nodded toward the opposite side of the park,
where a group of young ladies and gentlemen were knocking about the
balls preparatory to a game. “To-morrow we shall ask you to join us,” he
said to Rossie, “but as a physician, I advise you to rest to-day after
your long journey. Coming suddenly into this climate is apt to
debilitate if one is not careful. Good morning, Miss Hastings,” and with
a graceful wave of his hand he walked away with Josephine, leaving
Rosamond to look after and admire his splendid physique and manly form,
and to think what a pleasant, gentlemanly person he was, with such a
melodious voice.
Already he was beginning to affect and influence her thoughts, and she
sat and watched him as he walked very slowly toward the croquet-ground,
where, instead of joining in the game, he sat down at some little
distance and continued his conversation with Josephine, whose cheeks
were flushed and who seemed unusually excited.
The doctor’s first remark to her as they left the hotel had been:
“Well, Joe, did you fix it all right with her?”
“Fix what?” Josephine asked, knowing perfectly well what he meant, but
being determined that he should explain.
“Why, have you hired her not to go back on you, and tell that you are a
grass widow instead of a loving wife, whose husband is pining in her
absence?”
The elegant doctor could be very coarse and unfeeling when he talked
with Josephine, whom he understood so well, and who replied:
“If you mean will she hold her tongue about my affairs, she will, and
she does not know that you are the ‘priest all shaven and shorn, who
married the youth all tattered and torn to the maiden all forlorn.’ I
did not think it necessary to tell her that. Possibly, though, she may
have heard your name from Everard; I do not know how that may be. I only
told her that I knew you in Holburton, and that I met you again in
Dresden.”
“Yes;”—the doctor smoothed his mustache thoughtfully a moment, and then
added: “I say, Joe, don’t be in such a hurry to get to the croquet. I
want to talk with you. I’ve turned a new leaf. I’ve reformed. That time
I was so sick in Austria, I repented. I did, upon my soul, and said a
bit of a prayer,—and I believe I’ll join the church again; but first
I’ll confess to you, who I know will be as lenient toward me as any one.
I suppose you think you know just what and who I am, but you are
mistaken. I am a hypocrite, a rascal, a gambler, and have broken every
Commandment, I do believe, except ‘thou shalt not kill,’ and under great
provocation I might do that, perhaps; and, added to all this, I am
Rossie Hastings’ half-brother.”
“Rossie Hastings’ brother! Do you mean you are Rosamond’s brother? and
did you know it when you first came to Holburton, and why isn’t your
name Hastings, then?” Josephine asked, excitedly, and he replied, in the
most quiet and composed manner:
“One question at a time, my dear. I _am_ her brother, and my name was
Hastings once,—John Matthewson Hastings. I took the Matthewson and
dropped the Hastings to please a relative, who left me a few thousands
at her death. I _did_ know Rossie was my sister when I first met Everard
Forrest in Holburton, and to that knowledge you owe your present exalted
position as his wife.”
She turned her eyes inquiringly upon him, and he continued:
“I told you I was going to make a clean breast of my sins, and I am, so
far as your business is concerned. I hated Everard and the whole Forrest
race, and _that_ was my revenge!”
“Hated Everard! For what? Had you seen him before you met him in
Holburton?” Josephine said; and he replied:
“Yes, I had seen him, and I carried the marks of our meeting for weeks
and weeks on my forehead, and the remembrance of it in my heart always.
I had a stepmother,—a weak young thing whom I hated from the first, for
no special reason that I now recall, except that she was a stepmother
and I thought I _must_ hate her; and I did, and worried her life almost
out of her; and when a baby sister was born I hated that, because it was
hers, and because it would naturally share in my father’s property,
which was not large. The new mother was luxurious in her tastes, and
spent a great deal, and that made trouble between her and my father,
who, though a very elegant man in public, was the very Old Nick at home,
and led his young wife such a life that even I pitied her sometimes, and
did not wonder that she left him at last, and took refuge with her
intimate friend, Mrs. Forrest, Everard’s mother. Not long after she left
home my father died, and I was made very angry because of some money he
left to Rossie, which I thought ought to be mine, inasmuch as it came to
him from my mother. So I persecuted my mother-in-law, who, I believe,
was more afraid of me than of the old Harry himself. I went to the
Forrest House and demanded first to see her, and then to see my sister,
pretending I was going to take her away. The boy Everard was at home,
had just come in from riding, and he ordered me from the house, and when
I refused to go the stripling attacked me with his whip, and laid the
blows on well, too, especially the one on my face, the mark of which I
carried so long. I swore I’d have revenge on him, and I kept my word,
though at one time I gave up the idea entirely. That was at the
camp-meeting, where a lot of them converted me, or thought they did, and
for a spell I felt differently, and got a license to preach, and tried
to be good; but the seed was sown on stony ground and came to nothing,
and I took seven spirits worse than the first, and backslid and quit the
ministry, and went to studying physic, and was called doctor, and roamed
the world over, sometimes with plenty of money, sometimes with none, and
drifted at last to Holburton, where you asked me to be the priest in the
play, and marry you to Everard Forrest. You probably do not remember how
closely I questioned you about the young man. I wished to be certain
with regard to his identity, and I was after talking with him about his
home in Rothsay. He told me of Rossie, and boasted of the whipping he
had given her brother, whose vengeance he did not fear. He was young.
His father was rich, and proud as Lucifer, and would hardly think a
princess good enough to marry his only son, much less you, the daughter
of his landlady.
“Something told me I could not do Everard a worse turn than to tie him
fast in matrimony. You were not his stamp; not the one to hold him long;
he would repent the act sooner or later, while his father would make
life a burden to him when he came to know it. So I was particular to
leave nothing undone which would make the marriage valid, and when you
were man and wife I felt perfectly happy, until,—I began to get
interested in you myself, and then I sometimes wished my tongue had been
cut out, for I’ll be hanged if I don’t admire you more than any woman I
ever saw, notwithstanding that I know you like a book.”
“Spare your compliments and keep to your story, and tell me why you have
made no effort to see Rossie all these years,” Josephine said, coldly;
and he replied, “Reason enough. I was not particularly interested in her
then, and did not think an acquaintance with her would pay; but later
she has come before me in the character of an heiress, which makes her a
very different creature; you see, don’t you?”
“Yes, I see. Your sudden interest in her is wholly mercenary. Suppose I
should betray you? Are you not afraid of it?” Josephine asked, and in
her blue eyes there was a look which the doctor did not quite like; but
he affected not to see it, and replied, “Afraid? No, because telling is
a game two can play at as well as one. You cannot afford to quarrel with
me, Joe.”
The man’s face was exceedingly insolent and disagreeable in its
expression for a moment, while he glanced sidewise at his companion, who
made no sign that she heard him, but seemed wholly intent upon the game,
which was now growing very exciting. But when the expression changed,
and he continued in his most winning tone:
“No, we must stick to each other, and whatever good comes to me I’ll
share religiously with you;” she began faintly to comprehend him, and
turning her eyes upon him, said:
“Well, to return to first principles, Rossie is interesting to you now
because she has money; but she will not use it even for herself.”
“No!”—and the doctor mused thoughtfully a moment; then he said: “I like
the girl’s appearance, upon my soul I do! She is a pretty little filly,
and if I’d met her years ago she might have made a man of me, but it is
too late now; I am sold to Satan, body and soul, and must do his
bidding. How much is she worth, do you think?”
“The Forrest estate is variously estimated from two hundred to five
hundred thousand. I should say, perhaps, two hundred and fifty,”
Josephine replied, and the doctor continued:
“And she will not touch the principal on account of some queer notions
she has of giving it back to Forrest when she is twenty-one?”
“No, she will not touch the principal, nor more of the interest than is
absolutely necessary,” Josephine said, and for a few moments the doctor
was silent and seemed to be intently thinking.
When he spoke again he said:
“You say she is pious, or pretends to be, and if she does it is genuine;
there is no deceit in that face. I’d trust it with my soul, if
necessary. I tell you I like the girl. She is just the one to keep men
from losing faith in everything good. I’ll wager now that Forrest is in
love with her, and that’s one reason he does not take any more stock in
you. Is he?” and the doctor looked steadily at Josephine, who turned
very pale as he thus probed her so closely.
So far as affection was concerned she had none for her husband, but it
hurt her pride cruelly to know that with all her beauty and grace she
could not influence him one whit, or turn him from the girl she was sure
he loved as he had never loved her. She generally told the truth to Dr.
Matthewson, who had some subtle power to find it out if she did not, and
now, though sorely against her will, she answered:
“Yes, he worships the ground she treads upon.”
“Then, why in thunder doesn’t he get a divorce from you and marry her?
That surely would be an easy thing to do under the circumstances,” was
the doctor’s next remark.
“That is more than I can guess, unless he is too proud to endure the
notoriety of such a procedure. Certainly it is no consideration for me
which deters him,” Josephine said; adding suddenly, as she glanced up
the street: “There she comes now. You’d better declare yourself at
once.”
But the doctor knew his own plans best with regard to Rosamond, who was
coming toward the croquet-ground with two of her pupils, Clara and Eva
Andrews. She did not see the doctor and Josephine until she was close
upon them, and then simply bowing to them, she passed on and was soon
out of sight.
That night, as she was about preparing for bed, a thick heavy envelope
was brought to her room, directed in a hand she did not recognize.
Breaking the seal and glancing at the signature, she read with a thrill
of wonder and perplexity the name, “John Matthewson, _ne_ Hastings,”
while just above it were the words, “Your affectionate brother.”
“My brother,” she repeated. “What does it mean?” and for a moment she
felt as if she were going to faint with the rush of emotions which swept
suddenly over her.
Of her brother, personally, she remembered nothing. She only knew that
she had one; that in some way he annoyed and worried her mother; that he
was not highly esteemed by the Forrests, and that he was probably dead.
Latterly, however, since she had gone out into the world alone to care
for herself, she had often thought of him, and how delightful it would
be to have a brother who was good, and kind, and true, and who would
care for her as brothers sometimes care for their sisters. Occasionally,
too, she had amused herself with fancying how he would look if he were
alive, and how he would treat her. But she had never dreamed of any one
as handsome, and polished, and elegant as Dr. Matthewson, who signed
himself her brother, and had filled three or four sheets of paper with
what he had to say. Very eagerly she singled out the first sheet and
began:
“DEAR SISTER ROSSIE:—You will pardon me for not addressing you as Miss
Hastings, or even Rosamond, when I tell you I am your brother, and
have always thought of you as Rossie, the little girl who, I suppose,
does not remember me, and who, perhaps, has not been taught to think
of me very pleasantly. But, Rossie, I am a changed man, or I would not
present myself to you, a pure, innocent girl, and ask for sympathy and
love. I do not believe you care to hear all the events of my life in
detail, and so I shall not narrate them, but of a few things I must
speak, in order that we may rightly understand each other. And first,
your mother. I was a spoiled, wayward boy of sixteen when she came to
us, and I was prejudiced against her by an aunt of mine, who, I think
now, wanted my father herself. A stepmother was to me the worst of all
evils, and I thought it was manly to tease and worry her, while I
blush to say my father also treated her so shamefully that at last she
fled from him, as you know, and took refuge at the Forrest House,
where she finally died.
“I was there once to see her, and as you may not have heard the
particulars of that visit, and I wish to keep back nothing you ought
to know, I will tell you about it.”
Then followed a pretty truthful account of the encounter with Everard,
the cowhiding, and the vow of revenge, after which the doctor spoke of
his subsequent career, his change of name, his sudden conversion at a
camp-meeting, his life as a clergyman in Clarence, his back-sliding, and
lapse into his former evil ways, his few months’ study as a physician,
his first trip to Europe, and at last his sojourn for the summer in
Holburton, where he met Everard Forrest again, and was asked by
Josephine to take the part of priest in the play called “Mock Marriage.”
“Then it was,” he wrote, “that the devil entered into me and
whispered, ‘Now is your hour for revenge on the stripling who dared
lay his hand on you.’ From all I could learn of the Forrests, or
rather, of the judge, I guessed that he would rebel hotly against a
penniless bride in Miss Fleming’s social position, and that nothing
could be more disastrous for Everard than such a marriage; and yet I
aided and abetted it, and took care that it should be altogether
binding, and so gained my mean revenge, for which I have been sorry a
thousand times,—yes, more than that; and if I could undo the work of
that night I would do it gladly. But I cannot, and others suffer the
consequences. You see I am not ignorant of the manner in which Mr. and
Mrs. Forrest live, and I am sorry for them both, and am laying bare my
heart to you that you may know exactly the kind of brother you have
found; and that, however bad he may have been, he is a different man
now, or he would never intrude himself upon you.
“On my first interview with Everard in Holburton, I managed to get him
to speak of you, and I half resolved to seek you and claim you as my
own. But a sense of unworthiness kept me back. I was not a fitting
guardian for a girl like you, and so I still kept silence, and after a
time went to Europe again, where I remained until quite recently, and
where, by a long and dangerous illness, I was brought to a realization
of my sins, and resolved to lead a new life. Naturally, one of the
first and strongest desires of my new life was to find you. Mrs.
Forrest, who wrote to me occasionally, had told me that you had left
the Forrest House, of which you were the lawful heir; and as my health
required a warm climate, I came first to Florida, after my return to
America, intending, in the spring, to spare no pains to find you. The
rest you know.
“And now, Rossie, will you take me for a brother? If so, please leave
a line at the office, telling me where I can see you and when, and in
all the world there will be no one so happy as your affectionate
brother,
“JOHN MATTHEWSON, _ne_ HASTINGS.”
Rossie was not as strong as when she was a child, and any over-fatigue
or unusual excitement was sure to be followed by a nervous headache,
which sometimes lasted two or three days; and as she read this letter
she felt a cold, clammy sweat breaking out in the palms of her hands,
while a cutting pain in her head warned her that her old enemy,
neuralgia, was threatening an attack. That she believed every word of
the letter need hardly be said, for hers was a nature to believe
everything, and it made her very happy to know that the brother who
heretofore had been to her only a myth, was found at last, and _such_ a
brother, too. Then the question arose as to how Everard would receive
this man who had purposely done him so great a wrong. Would he forgive
him for her sake, and believe in his repentance? She should write to him
the next day and tell him all about it, and her heart throbbed with a
new and keen delight at the thought of some one to care for her, some
one to lean upon and advise her and help her with that _dreadful Forrest
estate_. And then her busy little brain plunged into the future, and
began to wonder where they should live and how, for that she should live
with her brother she did not for a moment doubt. Her place was with him,
and she should try so hard to make him happy, and keep him in the new
way wherein he was beginning to walk. In this state of mind it was
impossible to sleep, and when at last morning came it found her wakeful
and unrefreshed, with dark rings about her eyes, and so severe a pain in
her temples and the back of her neck that to go down to breakfast was
impossible. She had barely strength to dress herself and lie down upon
the couch, where Mrs. Andrews found her, after having waited some time
for her appearance.
Very rapidly and briefly Rosamond told her the good news, which Mrs.
Andrews accepted readily. She had heard before that Miss Hastings had a
brother, if he were not dead, and having met the doctor the previous day
and been much prepossessed with him, as strangers always were, she
rejoiced with her young friend, but advised her to wait until her head
was better before she risked the excitement of an interview. But this
Rossie could not do. She should never be better till she had seen her
brother, she said, and a message was accordingly sent him to the effect
that Rossie would see him in her room whenever he chose to come.
The doctor did not wait a moment, and was soon at Rossie’s side, bending
over her, and telling her not to allow herself to be agitated in the
least, but to lie quietly upon her pillow and let him do most of the
talking.
In all the world there was hardly a more accomplished and fascinating
hypocrite than Dr. Matthewson, and so well did he use his powers and art
that if Rossie had had any distrust of him or his sincerity it would
have been entirely swept away during the half hour he spent with her,
now talking of himself as he used to be with great regret, and of
himself as he was now with great humility; now telling how glad he was
to find his little sister, and then complimenting her in a way which
could not fail to be gratifying to any woman. Then he spoke of her
health, and was sorry to find her so frail and delicate, and asked her
many questions about herself, while he held her hand and felt her pulse
professionally. “Had she ever thought her heart at all diseased, or that
her lungs were affected?” he asked; adding, quickly, as he saw the
sudden start she gave:
“Oh, don’t be frightened, and conclude you have either consumption or
heart disease. I only asked because some members of our family far back
died with a heart difficulty, and if I remember right your mother had
consumption. But we must not let _you_ have either of them. You do not
seem to have a great amount of vitality. Are you never stronger than
now, and do these headaches occur very often?”
He had her hand in one of his, and with the other was stroking her head
and hair, while she answered that nothing ailed her except the headache
to which she had been subject all her life, and a predisposition to sore
throat whenever she took cold.
“Ah, yes, I see,” and the doctor looked very wise. “Bronchial trouble,
no doubt, aggravated by our dreadful American climate. Excuse me,
_mignonne_, if I confess to being more than half a European. I have
lived abroad so much that I greatly prefer being there, and know the
climate is better for me. Some day not far distant we must go there
together, you and I, and I’ll take such care of you that people will
hardly know you when you come back. I’ll have some color in these white
cheeks, though I don’t believe I could improve the eyes.”
It was the great desire of Rossie’s life to go to Europe some day, and
she assented to all her brother said, and wrote to Everard immediately
after her interview with the doctor, and told him of her brother, and
what a good, noble man he had become.
Then, as carefully and gently as possible, she spoke of the wrong he had
done to Everard, and for which he was so very sorry.
“I do not suppose you can ever like him as I do,” she wrote, “but I hope
you will try to be friends with him for my sake.”
Accompanying this letter was one from the doctor himself, couched in the
most conciliatory terms, full of regret for the past and strong in good
intentions for the future.
“I shall be so glad to be friends with you for Rossie’s sake, if for no
other,” he wrote in conclusion. “She holds you in higher esteem than any
living being; so let her plead for me; and when we meet, as we sometimes
must, or Rossie be very unhappy, let it be at least with the semblance
of friendship.”
Everard’s first impulse on receiving these letters was to go to Florida
at once and wrest Rossie from the fangs of the wolf, as he stigmatized
the doctor, in whom he had no faith.
“I cannot forgive him,” he said. “I will not, though he were ten times
her brother; and I distrust him, too, notwithstanding his protestations
of reform.”
But he could not write this to Rossie. He said to her in his letter that
if her brother was all she represented him to be, he was glad for her
sake that she had found him, and that he hoped always to be friendly
with her friends and those that were kind to her.
“But if he were the archangel himself,” he added, “I should find it hard
to forgive him for having removed from my grasp what I miss more and
more every day of my life, and long for with an intensity which masters
my reason and drives me almost to despair. But whatever I may feel
toward him, Rossie, I shall treat him well for your sake, and if you can
find any comfort in his society, take it, and be as happy as you can.”
To Dr. Matthewson he wrote in a different strain. He did not believe in
the man, and though he made an effort to be civil he showed his distrust
and aversion in every line. If the doctor had repented, he was glad of
it, but wished the repentance had come in time to have saved him from a
life-long trouble. A _boy’s_ cowhiding was a small matter for a _man_ to
avenge so terribly, he said, and then added:
“It is no news to me that you are John Hastings, Rossie’s half-brother.
I knew that long ago, but kept it to myself, as I did not wish Rossie to
know how much of my unhappiness I owed to her half-brother. Wholly
truthful and innocent, she thinks others are the same, and if you tell
her you are a saint she will believe it implicitly until some act of
your own proves the contrary. She is very happy in your society, and I
shall do nothing to make her less so, but don’t ask me to indorse you
cordially, as if nothing had ever happened. The thing is impossible. If
we meet I shall treat you well for Rossie’s sake, and shall not seek to
injure you so long as you are kind and true to her, but if you harm a
hair of Rossie’s head, or bring her to any sorrow, as sure as there is a
heaven above us, I’ll pursue you to the ends of the earth to be even
with you.”
There was an amused smile on Dr. Matthewson’s face as he read this
letter, which showed him so plainly what Everard’s opinion of him was. A
meaning smile, too, it was, and one which his enemy would hardly have
cared to see.
“So ho! the young man threatens me,” he said to himself. “I am glad he
has shown his hand, though it was foolish in him to do so, and proves
that he is not well up in fencing. I wonder what he wrote to Rossie; and
if she will show me the letter.”
Rossie could not show it to him, but when next they met in her room, she
said to him:
“I have heard from Everard, and he says that he is glad I am so happy
with you, and he will be friendly with you always, and I do so hope you
will like each other. Have you, too, heard from him?”
The doctor laughed a low, musical laugh, and drawing his sister to him,
said:
“You cannot dissemble worth a cent. Don’t you suppose I know that
Everard’s letter to you was not all you hoped it to be. He finds it hard
to forgive me for having deprived him of something which his maturer
manhood tells him is sweeter, more precious, and far more to be desired
than the object of his boyish passion. And I cannot blame him. I am as
sorry as he, in a different way, of course, and you——”
He did not finish the sentence, for Rossie broke away from him, and
burying her face in the cushions of the couch on which they were
sitting, burst into an uncontrollable fit of weeping.
“Don’t,” she said, as he made an effort to soothe her. “Don’t speak to
me, please. I must have it out now. I have kept it back so long. Oh, I
wish I had died when I was a little girl, and before I grew to be a
woman, with a woman’s love, which I must fight all my life, and never
know a moment of absolute rest and quiet. Oh, why did you do it? Why did
you separate me from my love? for he is mine, and I am his. I was
everything to him; he was everything to me. Oh, Everard, just this once
I will say out what I feel. _I love you,—I love you_; and I cannot help
it. I know it is wicked, and try to put it away. I bury it out of my
sight; I trample on it; I stamp upon it; I think I have the mastery over
it, and on the slightest provocation it springs into life more vigorous
than ever, and I _cannot_ conquer it.”
She had said all she had to say, but she kept on sobbing piteously, like
one in mortal pain; and, hardhearted, and utterly unprincipled, and
selfish as he was, Dr. Matthewson could not be wholly indifferent to a
grief such as he had never witnessed but once, and that was years ago;
but she who wept before him then was a fair-haired German girl asking
reparation for the ruin he had wrought. He had laughed at her, and
telling her she would make a splendid queen of tragedy, had bidden her
go upon the stage and achieve her fortune, then come to him, and perhaps
he would make terms with her. But Rossie was a different creature. She
knew nothing of such girls as Yula Van Eisner. She was Rossie, heiress
of the Forrest property,—and he walked up and down the room several
times, and blew his nose vigorously, and made a feint of wiping his eyes
with his perfumed handkerchief, and then came and stood by her, and
putting his hand on her bowed head, said to her:
“Don’t, Rossie, give way like this, or you will drive me mad, knowing,
as I do, that I have in one sense caused your sorrow. If I could undo
it, I would, but I cannot. There is, however, a way out of it. Have you
ever thought how easily he might get a divorce, which would make him
free?”
“He would not be free;” and, lifting up her head, Rossie flashed her
bright black eyes upon him indignantly. “The Bible would not recognize
him as free, neither would I, and you must not speak of such a thing to
me.”
“Then I will not,” he answered, still more soothingly; “but Rossie, it
is folly to give way like this, though for this once I am glad you did.
For now I understand better the cause of these pale cheeks and irregular
pulse, and am sure you need entire change of air and scene, such as you
can only find in Europe, where we are going in the spring. Think of a
summer in Switzerland among the glorious Alps. I know every rock, and
chasm, and winding path there, and shall be so happy in seeing you enjoy
them.”
He was speaking very kindly to her now, and she gradually grew calm, and
listened while he talked of Europe and what they should see there, for
he quite decided that they would go in the spring, and as nothing in the
way of travel could suit Rossie better, she told Mrs. Andrews the next
day of the plan and wrote of it to Everard, ignoring altogether his
right as her guardian to be consulted. But Everard did not resent it,
though for a time he felt half tempted to say that she should not go,
for a strong presentiment of evil swept over him with such force as to
keep him awake the entire night. But with the morning his nervous fears
subsided, and he could see no reasonable objection to Rossie’s going for
the summer to Europe with her brother, whose perfect knowledge of the
manners, and customs, and language of the different countries must make
him a very pleasant traveling companion.
Rossie had written that she should go directly from Florida to New York,
and so Everard wrote her his farewell letter, and sent her a draft for
five hundred dollars, which he said she might need, as she would not
care to be altogether dependent upon her brother. Rossie’s first impulse
was to return the draft, but Dr. Matthewson advised her to keep it and
not wound Everard by returning it to him.
So Rossie kept it, or rather, gave it to her brother, and sent a letter
of thanks to Everard and another to Bee, telling her of her intended
journey, and bidding her good-by.
With that subtle and mysterious foresight with which women seem to be
gifted, and for which there is no explanation, Beatrice anticipated
danger at once, though in what form she could not define. She only knew
that she wished Rossie was not going away alone with Dr. Matthewson, but
she kept her fears from Everard, and wrote to Rossie that she should be
in New York to see her off. And when Rossie stood at last on the deck of
the _Oceanic_, Bee was there and Everard, too, taking his last look at
the face which would haunt him in the years to come, as the faces of the
dead haunt us when we feel that by some act of ours interposed in time
we might have saved the life dearer than our own. Beatrice had said to
him:
“I am going to New York to see Rossie. Will you go with me?” and without
a moment’s reflection he went, and spent one blissful day with her, a
day never to be forgotten, when he drove with her in the Park, and
watched the constantly changing expression of her sweet face, which had
grown so pale and thin that he was more than half reconciled to let her
go, hoping much from the sea air and the new life she would lead. To the
doctor he was polite and courteous, and an ordinary observer might have
thought them the best of friends, so that Rossie was satisfied, and
would have been quite happy if she could have forgotten the distance
which would so soon intervene between them.
On the whole Beatrice was favorably impressed with Dr. Matthewson, who
was so kind to Rossie and so thoughtful for her that she dismissed her
fears, and half wished she, too, were going with them. She said as much
to Rossie when they stood upon the deck waiting for the order to be
given for all visitors to leave.
“Oh, I’d give the world if you were,” Rossie cried. “I should not feel
as I do,—afraid, somehow, as if I was never to return,—never to see you
again, or Everard.”
She was holding his hand in both hers as she spoke, and in that moment
of farewell she forgot everything except the presentiment that she was
going from him forever; that their parting was final; and her tears fell
like rain as she bent over and kissed his hand, and said:
“Good-by, Everard, good-by, and if it should be forever, you’ll never
forget me, will you?” These were her parting words, which, in the after
time, he said over and over again, with a bitterer, heavier pain than
that he felt when with Bee he stood upon the Jersey shore, and watched
the _Oceanic_ sailing down the bay.
And so Rossie passed from their sight, and the next they heard from her
she had reached Liverpool, but was greatly fatigued with the voyage,
during which she had been sick most of the time. It was only a few lines
she wrote to Everard, to tell him she was safe.
“When I am stronger,” she said, “I will send you and Beatrice a long
letter, and tell you everything. Now I can only sit by my window and
look out upon the busy streets of Liverpool and St. George’s Hall right
opposite, and occasionally there comes over me a feeling of something
like homesickness when I remember how far I am from America and the
friends who never seemed half so dear to me as now, when I am so widely
separated from them.”
The next he heard from Rossie she was in London, delightfully located in
lodgings near Regent’s Park, and playing keep house, while her brother
was the best and kindest man in the world, and she was very happy. Then
they went to Switzerland, and Rossie’s letters were full of the
enthusiastic delight she felt with everything around her. Of her health
she seldom spoke, and when she did, it was not altogether satisfactory.
Sometimes she was so tired that she had kept her room for two or three
days, and again a headache, or sore throat, or cold, had confined her to
the house for nearly a week; but she was very happy among the Alps, and
wished that Beatrice and Everard were there with her to enjoy what she
was enjoying. As the summer advanced, however, her letters were not so
frequent, and the doctor sometimes wrote for her, saying she was not
feeling well, and had made him her amanuensis. They were not to be
alarmed, he said; it was only a slight heart difficulty, induced by the
mountain air, which often affected tourists in that way. He should take
her to Southern France early in the autumn, and then to Italy as the
season advanced, and should not return to America till spring.
When Everard read this letter there came over him again a great horror
of some impending evil threatening Rossie, and do what he might he could
not shake it off. He thought of it by day and dreamed of it by night,
and could he have found any good excuse for doing so, he would have
started for Europe, and kept near the girl, who, it seemed to him, was
in some imminent peril, though of what nature he could not guess.
Some time in November a letter came from Dr. Matthewson, dated at Nice,
where he said they had been for two or three weeks, and where, as he
expressed it, “I hope our dear invalid is improving. Switzerland was not
the place for her, and she seemed to grow weaker every day she staid
there, so I hastened back to Paris, and then came here, where she seems
very happy, but is weak as an infant. She complains of nothing but
weariness, and cannot get rested. Of course I have the best medical
advice for her, and everything is done which can be to arrest the
disease and give her some strength. The physicians have forbidden her
reading or writing, even short letters, and I must do it for her for the
present. I hope that neither you nor Miss Belknap will be needlessly
distressed, for I assure you there is no immediate danger, and with
proper care, such as she has now, she will, I think, be quite able to
return to America in the spring. She is calling to me now from her chair
by the window, and says. ‘Tell them not to be troubled about me; that I
walked too much in Switzerland and am not rested yet, but am so happy
here in beautiful Nice, looking out upon the blue Mediterranean.’”
After this letter Rossie never wrote again, and though Everard and
Beatrice wrote frequently to her, asking her to send them a line, if
nothing more, Dr. Matthewson always replied, “She is forbidden to write
even so much as her name;” and so the fall and winter crept on, and
Rossie was first in Venice, then in Florence, and then in Rome. And then
Dr. Matthewson wrote one day to Everard, saying that Rossie did not know
of this letter, neither did he wish her to know, as it would only
trouble her and retard her recovery, but to be brief, he found himself
straitened for money just now, physicians charged so abominably in
Europe, and on account of Rossie’s illness their expenses were, of
course, much heavier than they would otherwise have been, and if Everard
would make an advance for Rossie of a few thousand dollars, he should be
very glad. He was intending to leave Rome early in the spring, and go to
Germany to a famous cure, where the prices were very high.
Double the amount of money asked for was placed at the doctor’s
disposal, and when that night Everard went to Elm Park to call upon
Beatrice, he said, in reply to her inquiries for news from Rossie:
“We shall never see her again.”